


A Case of Confidence

by rowdy_tanner



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen, Old West
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 09:11:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowdy_tanner/pseuds/rowdy_tanner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ezra P. Standish has a con for every occasion but will the boys approve?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Case of Confidence

 

**Disclaimer:** The boys are the property of MGM, Mirisch and Trilogy Entertainment. I do not own them or make money from them but if I did own them I promise I would share.

**Characters:** Old West. Chris, Vin, Ezra and the boys. Ezra has a con for every occasion...but will he win the boys approval?

 

**The Clarion Newspaper Office, Four Corners**

She wrinkled her nose at the smell of linseed oil. If only the town of Four Corners would grow a little faster! Mary Travis had calculated that if each abandoned business in town re-opened and they, plus the ones already open for trade, each took out a regular advertisement in her newspaper she would be able to employ a typesetter. Perhaps, she could even afford a guillotine operator, a task that frankly terrified her. Leaving her free to write articles, reports on current events and political editorials instead of having to supplement the paper's content with boring news reports written by others. 

Still, this was quite an interesting piece concerning Bitter Creek. A town not far away that had, until very recently, been growing with almost indecent haste. Now it seemed that homestead after homestead was going under. How odd, thought Mary, the newshound in her smelling a bigger story as she removed her black apron and sleeve protectors.

The bell above the office door jangled loudly as the widow's young son, Billy Travis, hurtled through the door, "Mama! Mama! Look at the big fish I caught all on my own!"

The six-foot tall man wearing a darkly striped gray shirt and black pants so tight they threatened to offend town decency, at least had the wherewithal to look a little abashed as he followed behind the boy. "Sorry, Mary, he wouldn't let me wrap it in newspaper and keep it in my fishing basket."

Mary gave Chris a forgiving look of understanding before holding the slippery fish up and away from her pretty coral pink dress. "Billy, do you think that you might politely ask Mr. Larabee to help you to, um, clean and gut your catch?"

"Can't we stuff it? Grandpa Travis has stuffed fish hanging on the walls of his study! Can we? Can we?"

"It is very expensive to stuff a fish and I'm not sure that this one is quite big enough to warrant it, Billy, dear."

"Aw. I bet Chris could stuff it! Can you, Chris?" The boy eagerly looked up at the man he idolized.

"I'm sorry, Billy but stuffing a fish is beyond me," answered Chris Larabee. 

No, Chris Larabee couldn't stuff a fish but if that scruffy, long haired Texan leaning in the doorway with his thumbs hooked in his gun belt snickered just once more, he'd practice some taxidermy on Vin Tanner's scrawny body while the tracker was still alive and kicking.

"Billy, a fish that fine makes real memorable eatin'," rasped Vin Tanner, feeling the small boy's disappointment keenly.

"Do you think so?" asked Billy, somewhat dubiously.

"Kinda fish folk remember the eatin' of fer years."

"Okay." Billy reluctantly gave up his dream of having a splendid stuffed fish hung on the wall above his bed.

"Billy, why don't you draw a picture of it first for your mama to hang up on the wall behind your bed?" suggested Chris.

"Will you make me a special picture frame for it, Chris?" pleaded Billy. Now bursting anew with childish excitement.

"Yes," smiled Chris fondly, watching the boy run off in search of paper and colorful drawing materials.

"Mr. Larabee?"

"Mary?"

"Have you heard of any reason why so many of the homesteaders are leaving Bitter Creek?"

"No, Mary, I can't say that I have. Why?"

"I thought I might take a ride into Bitter Creek and take a look around," explained Mary, handing him the news story.

After reading it Chris shook his head. "I'd rather you didn't, Mary."

"Mighty dangerous fer a woman ta be ridin' inta some strange town alone an' askin' folk questions," warned Tanner. "Ain't no job fer a lady."

Mary Travis puffed up like an angry bantam hen, her feathers clearly ruffled. "Mr. Larabee, may I remind you that I am the editor of this newspaper, it is my job to report the news and as such I have no compunction about facing danger!" Adding with a sneer, "Real or imaginary."

Chris glanced back over his shoulder wondering why he was the one getting it in the neck and not the tracker. From under a slouch hat guileless blue eyes gazed back with a smirk. 

"Mary, this has nothing to do with your sex. I wouldn't let one of my best men ride in there alone without knowing what exactly it was that they were riding into." 

"Yep," agreed the tracker, scratching his stubbled chin.

"So I'll send in Vin."

"Whoa!??" The tracker looked bemused.

Now it was Larabee's turn to smirk. "He can scout ahead and I'll ride in with Josiah Sanchez and Nathan Jackson. Three of us should be enough to rescue his skinny carcass if he finds trouble."

M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7

Bitter Creek was a pretty little town. Its main street normally bustling with homesteaders and local tradespeople. But when Vin Tanner dismounted outside the Brown Derby livery there was a definite air of quiet despair pervading the entire town.

Chris Larabee paced the grass a few strides away from the three horses shaded by the stand of oaks a half mile outside Bitter Creek. A foul smelling cheroot clamped tightly in his jaw occasionally sending furious smoke signals up into the wide blue yonder.

"He's going to wear a groove in the center of the Earth if that boy doesn't make a reappearance soon," remarked Josiah Sanchez, feeling about as relaxed as a man sitting on a barrel of gunpowder while smoking a cigarette.

"Vin ain't been gone that long," pointed out Nathan Jackson, as Larabee's entire body suddenly tensed up and raising his head he glared off into the distance.

"Unfortunately, in Brother Larabee's case out of sight never means out of mind when it comes to our Brother Vin."

A shrill whistle drew their combined attention to a familiar horse and rider leaving the winding trail and making their way towards the trees.

"Can you ride that damn cayuse any slower?" snapped the gunfighter.

The newly returned tracker leaned back in the saddle as a wide grin lit the handsome tanned face. "Ya done gettin' a mite fretful over me, Cowboy?" he drawled in a voice both as rough and sweet as granulated sugar.

"I hate standing out in the noon sun wasting my valuable time!" snarled the gunfighter.

"Burning daylight better spent sparking Miz Travis?" needled the tracker.

"Tanner!" 

"Hell's teeth, don't get yer britches in a knot," laughed the man in buckskin, sliding gracefully from the saddle. "Gonna give yerself a rupture in them tight pants. Ain't he, Nathan?"

"Tanner!"

"Turn around a mite too quick in them pantaloons an' ya'll cut yerself in half, Cowboy."

Nathan coughed into his hand to disguise his laughter and Josiah turned away to hide a smile resembling a row of tombstones as impotent fury radiated from the tall, blond gunslinger in black.

"Ain't got good news," began the sharpshooting tracker.

"Spit it out!" snapped Larabee.

"Ev'ry month town got more homesteaders comin' in than a stray dawg got fleas," continued Tanner, totally unfazed by the gunfighter's hissy fit. "Town is right popular with homesteading families with its schoolhouse, purty church an' a well-stocked store. Liveryman tol' me the biggest store's gotten everythin' a family needs ta get started out West."

"So?"

"Seems the awful friendly storekeeper, Ebenezer Leach, is mighty generous with extending credit. Lets folk take all the goods they's needin' on tick fer a year an' a day."

"No other store can extend credit as long as he can in order to compete?" asked Nathan.

"And?" snapped an impatient Larabee.

"Then he demands they pay their account in full. Most can't find the cash money so he kindly takes signed paper on their goods an' chattels fer surety an' charges 'em interest at high rates they ain't never gonna pay off this side a hell."

"An' most being honest hardworking folks they pay an' pay?" suggested Josiah.

"Paying maybe a hundred times as much as they ever owed on the goods in the first place?" asked Larabee.

"Until they miss a payment or two and he forecloses? Takes all they have?" scowled Nathan.

"They can stay on their homesteads but without livestock an' tools ta work the land . . ." Tanner shrugged. "Most jus' eventually give up an' go back East."

"And he sells their livestock and tools to the next influx of homesteaders. On credit of course," said Josiah.

"Ain't illegal."

"It's definitely sharp business practice," snapped Nathan.

"Ain't nuthin' we can do. Folks jus' get suckered in."

"Similar things happen every day in hundreds of mining camps and in plenty of other small towns," conceded Josiah. 

"It still ain't right!" Nathan was frankly furious.

"I need a drink. Let's ride."

"Think I's gonna stick around fer a while."

"Tanner," warned the gunfighter.

"I's stayin' outta trouble. Jus' gettin' some grub an' seeing a few more folks."

"Don't eat the free saloon lunch," warned Nathan, "it's packed with salt to make you drink more."

"And make sure to be back in Four Corners before sunset," ordered Larabee.

"Why? Ya want ta tuck me up in bed afore dark an' croon me a lullaby?"

"No. I just can't be bothered riding all the way back out here to scrape your scrawny dead ass up off some saloon floor."

"Nag, nag, nag," the smiling tracker muttered into Peso's ear as the other three men rode away.

M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7

"Well, that explains why Terry Greer quit her job there. I'll print a front page story in The Clarion News!" announced an outraged Mary Travis.

"What good will that do the homesteaders in Bitter Creek, Mary?" asked Buck Wilmington. My she looks so pretty with her cheeks all flushed pink. It's almost worth getting her riled up just to see her eyes shine with passion, thought the ladies' man.

"We must warn the new people coming into Bitter Creek! You have to help them somehow," Mary Travis beseeched the six men standing in front of her desk.

"There is nothing to be done," decided Larabee.

"Miz Travis, we can't stand outside the Bitter Creek store all day just warning folks not to do business in there," explained Nathan.

Mary sighed deeply and looked up at the tall brooding gunslinger in black. Eyes the color of freezing pond water stared back. The bell above the door failed to jangle as the tracker slipped unobtrusively into the newspaper office. 

J. D. Dunne nudged Buck and mouthed, "How does he do that trick with the bell?"

_Mary thinkin' on ya bein' Bitter Creek's bad element fer a while, Cowboy?_

"There is nothing we can do, Mary," repeated the gunslinger more harshly than he had intended. "Four Corners is the town we're each paid a dollar a day to protect."

"C'mon, Larabee, let me show ya where the saloon is," rasped the tracker, before the atmosphere between Chris and Mary could become even more incendiary. "'Scuse us, ma'am," Vin added, tipping his hat to the lady editor and pushing Larabee through the door ahead of him.

"I am quite sure that a bad element such as Mr. Larabee, already knows where the saloon is!" snapped Mary. 

Red in the face, Mary angrily hurled the yellow lead pencil that normally resided behind her ear across the office as the other men followed Vin's lead and filed out through the door.

Ezra P. Standish tipped his hat politely as he made certain that he was the last to leave The Clarion. "My good woman, don't give way to despair just yet."

Mary wished that she was armed with a sharpened pencil behind her other ear.

M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7

Absentmindedly demonstrating his tactile sensitivity with the pasteboards, Ezra ruminated on the problem in his seat at the gunfighter's table.

"Mr. Larabee?"

"Ezra, this new bottle of Highland Pure Rye whiskey has my full attention, keep your pontificating to yourself," snapped the gunfighter.

Ezra cleared his throat and braced himself. "Mother and I ran a little con ideally suited to small towns where certain residents were known to be somewhat dishonest."

"Yeah?" drawled Tanner, loosening the stampede strings before pushing back his hat and slumping down in his chair to relieve the pressure on his aching spine. Eagerly looking forward to one of the gambler's colorful anecdotes as he helped himself to a generous glass of Larabee's whiskey. The ferocious gunslinger's territorial glare bouncing off the scruffy tracker unheeded.

"Although relatively unsophisticated, if adapted it may work very well in a simple little burg such as Bitter Creek . . ."

M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7

**Bitter Creek, three days later . . .**

The three men dressed in head-to-toe black left three sleek gray horses, clearly bred for speed, at the Brown Derby livery. Silver heads of red-eyed Gorgons were emblazoned across the backs of the men's short jackets and long blood red sashes were tied at their waists. Roweled silver spurs decorated with silver bells heralded their arrival as they walked in step three abreast. It seemed that even the very dust of Bitter Creek was too afraid to adhere to their black high-heeled boots and silver banded hats. 

Their leader stepped up onto a boardwalk itself too scared to let out its customary creaks and groans. Menace inked into every sharp angle of his stride. Beside him a slight sketch of a man allowed his shoulders to shake in amusement. The sheriff in Bitter Creek informed his deputy that one of the men was the deadly gunfighter, _Johnny Ringo_. A well-known bad element with a less than stellar reputation, formerly the scourge of the rowdy cow town, Dodge City. The long haired half-breed with him, _Vin McKenna_ , was apparently Wanted dead or alive for the cold blooded murder of a poor helpless farmer somewhere up in the Texas panhandle. The third man, _Blade Johnson_ , a deadly killer armed with throwing knives, his savage skills said to have been honed on the unlucky slave owners of the deep South. 

The sheriff watched a little nervously as the trio barged into the Silver Spur saloon and ordered a bottle of red-eye whiskey.

"I can smell something, _McKenna_ ," stated Larabee, pouring all three men a glass of the cheap whiskey sold inside the Silver Spur saloon.

"Cain't help it," mumbled the tracker, deeply embarrassed, "Inez Recillos gave me extra chili beans fer breakfast."

"It's not you for once. It's the overpowering scent of expensive cologne. Has Ezra just walked in?"

Discretely, Vin made eye-contact with the gambler.

"Yep. _Edwin Booth Stanworth_ is drinking brandy at a table over by the doors. An', _Johnny_ , I's thinkin' he's gigglin' at yer fancy duds."

"You and _Blade_ here are wearing exactly the same clothes. How do you know it's me he's laughing at?" challenged Larabee, not wanting to admit that he felt quite relaxed and comfortable in the disguise Ezra had mysteriously provided all three men with.

"Cos our britches done fit us, _Johnny_ ," drawled Vin, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. " _Edwin_ can count the loose change in yer backside pocket even from where he's sittin'."

"Will you two stop it! I'm having enough trouble looking mean, moody and dangerous without you two almost making me laugh," complained Nathan.

"Awrighty, _Blade._ An' jus' so ya knows yer lookin' real scary ta me, _Blade_."

 "Thanks, I think, but it don't make it any easier. I think _Edwin_ over there had us all dress up like this to get his revenge for the purple dress."

"Thought we done all agreed never ta mention that purple dress ag'in," shuddered the tracker.

M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7

The sheriff of Bitter Creek himself may have been the one to start the rumor that Johnny Ringo and his two motley companions were here in town to rob the stagecoach but it was soon taken up as fact. Fearfully, the town folk watched as the stagecoach arrived in town. 

A burly man with close-cropped gray hair and a huge rock like jaw alighted from the stagecoach to stretch his legs. In spite of his size he was seen struggling to tote a large and seemingly very heavy valise. His suit was obviously made for a man a head shorter than he himself was but other than that his tall hat made him appear reasonably well-to-do.

_Edwin B. Stanworth's_ poker table inside the Silver Spur was most definitely where the scuttlebutt started circulating that the passenger's locked valise contained a fortune in gold bars.

M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7

Ebenezer Leach stood alongside a relieved number of townspeople watching as the stagecoach passengers embarked ready to leave for Ridge City. The man with the heavy valise looked around furtively as he rejoined his fellow travelers inside the stagecoach. Full of curiosity Leach strolled down to the livery as the stagecoach passed by and moments later he observed The Ringo Gang riding out hell for leather in pursuit of the departing Butterfield stagecoach.

Intending to return to his store Ebenezer Leach almost failed to see the gambler, _Edwin B. Stanworth_ , leading his easily recognizable chestnut horse out from behind the livery and setting out on the trail of The Ringo Gang. Puzzled, Leach meandered thoughtfully back to his store. 

_Edwin Booth Stanworth_ had arrived in Bitter Creek three days earlier. Making it his business to call into Ebenezer's store every afternoon on some small pretext, the two men had struck up a cordial acquaintance. _Edwin_ regularly sharing the contents of his cigar case and expressing his appreciation of Ebenezer's well-stocked, efficiently run store. The red-coated gambler even going so far as to mention in passing his ambition to one day win enough at the poker tables to own such a thriving establishment. Ebenezer Leach was too well-practiced in obsequiousness to express his surprise at what seemed to him a lowly ambition. Ebenezer had set his entrepreneurial sights on a much higher position in life than mere storekeeper. 

If he remembered correctly _Edwin_ had been the one to inform him that The Ringo Gang consisted of three murderous road agents. The auburn haired gambler had also imparted his suspicions that the stage must be carrying something of great value to have attracted this particular gang's interest.

"All three men are wanted for murder in various States," _Edwin_ had eagerly recalled. "Even Jock Steele cannot adequately describe the casual viciousness with which these villains dispatch their hapless victims. I admit that seeing them in the flesh is somewhat surprising to me, I had long imagined their appearances to be more the stuff of nightmares. I fully expected _Vin McKenna_ to be taller. He was raised by Comanches and after being privy to reports describing in detail some of his barbarous acts I am of the opinion that hanging is far too good for that animal."

Ebenezer Leach felt a cold shiver run down his back and thanked his lucky stars that The Ringo Gang had left Bitter Creek.

M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7

As Ezra galloped after the stagecoach his mount, Chester, tossed his head from side to side and seemed uncertain of his master's intentions. Ezra quickly realized that his trembling hands were constantly fidgeting with the reins. Ezra had enacted this same con or its myriad variations more times than he cared to remember and he had no need to be nervous. Well, had he? Yes, this time he had. And what made this occasion so very different? 

Six men. 

Those six men and the urge to live up to their expectations made the difference. Never before had he cared so much about the outcome of a con. Vin Tanner trusted him completely. Well, enough to get dressed up in clothes that he would normally have avoided like the plague. Chris Larabee had at least a enough faith in him to believe that his crooked nature could pull this off. Which wasn't quite the same thing as trust but when it came to Larabee, Ezra would take what he could get and hope to prove the man in the bib-fronted black shirt wrong. 

Nathan Jackson and Josiah Sanchez might not trust him but they were hoping and praying that his con would work as well as he had claimed it would for the sake of the beleaguered residents of Bitter Creek.

J. D. Dunne and Buck Wilmington were taking as much enjoyment as they could from being involved in a con and probably did trust Ezra to pull it off.

Determined to prove to those six men that he was the most twisted, cheating, conniving, heroically dishonest man they could ever hope to call brother, the trickster urged Chester onwards post haste.

M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7

Some hours later a commotion in Main Street lured an apron wearing Ebenezer out from behind his countertop.

Two men had rapidly dismounted from their lathered up horses. 

"We're U.S. Marshals Wilmington and Dunne, in need of fresh horses! The Butterfield stagecoach was robbed by The Ringo Gang!" bellowed the tall lanky lawman.

"They slaughtered everyone on the stage!" seconded Marshal Dunne, an attractive young man wearing a stupid hat and a pair of matched Colt Lightnings.

"They escaped with a locked valise containing a fortune gold bars! Be warned that they could still be in the area because the courier wasn't allowed to carry the key to the gold with him. Those dangerous desperadoes will need tools to force the heavy-duty lock open. Stay off the streets!"

"Lock your doors!" echoed Marshal Dunne.

The noisy arrival of the two handsome men and their warning to stay off the streets had the opposite effect on the young women of Bitter Creek. Setting aside their chores, licking their lips and pinching roses in their cheeks, a number of pretty young girls crowded the boardwalks to admire the dashing U.S. Marshals' heroic antics.

"Damn this animal magnetism!" beamed Buck, stroking his luxuriant mustache and taking stock of all the smiling faces and tiny waists.

"Ha ha! It's me they're all ogling, Buck," insisted JD, doffing his hat to three tittering maidens dressed in demure flower sprigged gowns all conveying anything but pure maidenly thoughts in their flashing eyes.

Reluctantly following Ezra's plan to the letter, Buck and JD manfully withstood Bitter Creek's carnal temptations. Dutifully finding fresh horses at the livery and hurriedly leaving the town.

"What a pretty church," remarked Buck as they passed by the minister's daughter picking up her skirts and hurrying up the steps.

"Huh?" JD turned in the saddle to catch a glimpse of the spire and instead spied a shapely ankle.

"I feel the need to pray. I shall pay a return visit to Bitter Creek on Sunday and join the beautiful congregation," solemnly declared Buck.

"Yeah?" snickered JD. "Just don't decide to start confessing all your sins in church 'cos Chris will want you back by Monday!"

M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7

On realizing that his store might be at risk, Ebenezer Leach tried not to appear too panic-stricken. He stepped back inside and hurriedly put up the CLOSED sign. He was headed to the rear of the store in order to secure the backdoor when _Edwin B. Stanworth_ slithered inside and bolted the door behind him. 

Panting for breath the gambler hoisted the heavy valise onto the countertop. Leach's jaw dropped, the normally dapper gambler's frilled shirt was drenched in sweat and his emerald eyes bloodshot. Extending the pause longer than even the real Edwin Booth's own interpretation of Hamlet warranted, the gambler's chest heaved dramatically.

"Are you one of Ringo's gang?" asked an astonished Leach, nervously eyeing the other man's spring-loaded Derringer and the Remington pistol in the shoulder holster.

"No," croaked the cardsharp. "I followed The Ringo Gang and secreting myself in the bushes, I watched as they robbed the stage. It was bloody carnage. I observed them hiding this stolen valise in the rocks above the trail. Doubtless they intended to return for it once the furore had died down. Their fleet horses could assuredly outrun any pursuing posse unless they retained this valise that would surely weigh them down."

Leach couldn't refrain from asking, "Is there gold in the valise?"

"I have no key so I cannot ascertain its exact contents but test the weight of it, sir."

Leach tried to lift the valise confirming that it was indeed heavy enough to contain gold bars. "It could be filled with almost anything heavy."

"I'm sure The Ringo Gang were in possession of factual evidence concerning its contents. The fact that most concerns me is that they believe it contains gold and will relentlessly hunt me down when they discover their hiding place is empty of their misappropriated booty. I hardly dare to dwell on the tortuous slow death their savage half-breed cohort will inflict on my person should they be successful in their pursuit of me."

"What's your next step?"

"My horse collapsed and expired just outside of town during my desperate flight from peril, I need to purchase another steed in order to complete my getaway. You are the only person in Bitter Creek I trust enough to guard this fortune while I visit the livery to obtain a fleet and stalwart mount." Wiping his brow the gambler sank down onto the bentwood chair intended for more elderly customers. "Sir, I have never before acted in such a rash manner but on seeing my opportunity to be a very rich man I seized it. Only now am I doubting the wisdom of this foolhardy act. How can I hope to continue to elude these murderous brigands?"

Ebenezer Leach shrugged his shoulders.

"My horse is food for the buzzards out on the trail. Fool that I am, I left my red cutaway coat behind! The entire gang saw me wear it in the Silver Spur, when they return to town and find me absent they will identify me as their prime suspect. I will be stalked to my certain doom! Hunted down like an animal! Help me! Hide me! I beg you, Ebenezer, help me!"

Distracted by the gambler's wild-eyed hysteria and the siren call of the gold, a daring plan began to take shape in Ebenezer Leach's mind. Covertly, Ezra watched the look of greed suffuse the storekeeper's weasel face. For a brief moment Ebenezer Leach warred with himself. Much to the gambler's satisfaction the storekeeper's natural avarice rapidly chased all doubt way.

"My dear Mr. Stanworth, Edwin, you once expressed your ambition to own a profitable concern such as I presently operate. I could be persuaded to exchange the deeds, stock and goodwill for the contents of that valise."

"What?" Ezra pasted a false look of surprise on his face.

"Time is of the essence so do we have a deal?" pressed Ebenezer.

"You do realize that you may never return to the environs of Bitter Creek while the The Ringo Gang are still alive? They would shoot you on sight!"

"I have no intention of ever returning or leaving any clue as to my whereabouts. Suffice it to say I never will be seen in the West again."

"Very well," agreed Ezra, with an air of quiet desperation.

Gold tooth gleaming, Ezra watched as Ebenezer removed the deeds from the safe and hurriedly signed them over to one Edwin B. Stanworth. The same Edwin B. Stanworth that was only too happy to help Ebenezer Leach load the weighty valise onto the ex-storekeeper's wagon, secrete it under several empty grain sacks and wave farewell as he disappeared into the far distance.

M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7 M7

Expensive cigar smoke wreathed The Larabee Gang's table in the Silver Spur saloon as all seven men imbibed a celebratory whiskey or several, provided by the thankful residents of Bitter Creek.

"I don't ever recall having an entire town involved in one of my cons," smiled a relaxed Ezra, his red wool cutaway coat and the gallant Chester restored to him, "even the town sheriff was most cooperative."

"Don't forget the stagecoach driver, he kindly made an unauthorized stop out on the trail to enable Josiah to leave the stage and hand over the valise to you," Nathan reminded him.

"Indeed how could I? I only wish that he could have halted a little nearer to town. Once Josiah had taken custody of my horse, my return journey to Bitter Creek was a most difficult perambulation while bearing such heavy luggage. A gentleman does not debase himself by toting his own valise over hill and dale."

"Especially a worthless valise," chuckled Josiah.

"I beg to differ, Josiah, the bricks it contained were in fact rare masonry from ancient Rome."

"Hooey!" laughed Buck Wilmington, slapping the table with good humor.

"Greed makes men blind," beamed Josiah.

"Won't Ebenezer Leach return to Bitter Creek once he finds nothing but some crumbling old bricks in the valise?" asked JD.

"I am quite sure that he is far too afraid of The Ringo Gang gunning him down without asking questions first, to revisit the scene of the crime," explained Ezra.

"What are you going to do with the Bitter Creek store now that you own it, Ezra?" prompted JD.

"I fully intend to---"

"Now that the imaginary _Edwin B. Stanworth_ owns the Bitter Creek store," interrupted Chris Larabee with a glare that could cut glass.

"You are going to go through the books with Josiah here and ensure every account is fair and that folks are only paying off exactly what they owe," stated Nathan. 

"Then Mary Travis will find someone honest to takeover and run the store," smiled Buck, raising his glass to Ezra.

"Reckon Miz Terry Greer makes a fine choice fer a lady storekeeper. Town sure is a right nice place ta raise a chile. Iffen Miz Travis could find her an' her little 'un, Olivia, ag'in," rasped Vin.

"Olivia," shuddered Buck, checking his vest pocket for his silver pocket watch, twice.

"Mrs. Travis will find her have no fear," agreed Josiah, slapping Ezra on the back.

"Ha Ha! Ezra comes away with nothing to show for all his hard work!" laughed JD.

"Except that the divine Mary Travis will owe me a favor and that is most truly something worth more than gold," smiled a confident Ezra.

"You done good, Ezra," nodded Nathan.

Vin punched the gambler on the arm to express his approval.

Chris Larabee poured the gambler a whiskey and silently pushed it across the table.

Ezra glowed from head to toe with pride. "Thank you," he said flashing his gold tooth.

 

**THE END**

 


End file.
